


Kissing on the First Date

by CantStopImagining



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/F, Modern AU, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 15:34:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6811228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CantStopImagining/pseuds/CantStopImagining
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Honestly, she’d known from the moment Trixie suggested it that it was ridiculous, and yet, here she was. On a date. With a man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kissing on the First Date

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what possessed me to start this right in the middle of working on PTP - apparently I have been bitten by the AU bug. I took quite a few liberties with this but I hope you'll enjoy it all the same.

This was ridiculous.

Honestly, she’d known from the moment Trixie suggested it that it was ridiculous, and yet, here she was. On a date. With a man. A perfectly respectable man, admittedly, the kind of man who most women would probably find wildly attractive. Perhaps a little too tall, and perhaps his jaw was a little too sharp for some women, but… attractive, all the same. Maybe. To most women.

Patsy wasn’t most women, but she’d squeezed herself into a nice dress and some high heels, carefully applied make-up, made her hair presentable (or as presentable as one could after a nine hour shift in A&E) to try and pretend that she was. 

And it had been a mistake. Of course it had been a mistake. Not because he wasn’t nice. He seemed kind, in a sort of dishevelled ‘I talk about myself when I’m nervous’ kind of a way. He had a sense of humour, which was more than Patsy could say for most of the doctors she worked with. He even managed to hold a conversation with her face and not with her chest. But it had been a mistake all the same, and the fact she was already on her third glass of red wine was probably proof enough of that. Fortunately, she’d had plenty of experience in handling people she didn’t really want to talk to, and being polite about it.

Still, he didn’t seem deterred, and when the waiter asked if they’d like dessert menus, he’d said yes, much to her dismay.

Perhaps if she hadn’t given up smoking again (and it was actually going well, unlike the last seven times) she could excuse herself for a cigarette break. She’d tried going to the ladies’ room, but it didn’t matter how long she glared at the wall in the cubicle, she couldn’t drill a hole in it with her eyes, so it was pointless. She’d returned, hoping he didn’t think anything of the fact that she’d been in there at least ten minutes.

The girls at work would laugh at this story if it came from anybody but her. If the man had any real imperfection besides his _gender_. But she’d heard how they talked about her: Patsy Mount, terminally single. They’d all tried to set her up on dates, tried to talk to her about cute patients they had (as if she wanted to date someone with a fungal toenail problem, or a stomach ulcer, or who was admitted for drunkenly walking through a glass door - the list went on). They worried for her, that’s what they all said. She couldn’t convince them that she was happy just being single, independent, that she didn’t need a man, that she wasn’t lacking anything.

It had been through sheer nagging that she’d agreed to go on a date with Nick. She’d hoped it would shut Trixie up, that she’d go on one date, find him tolerable, let him down gently, and that would be it. But that wouldn't be it. She could tell from the way his eyes had been drifting to her lips all night, from the way he’d tried to touch her hand several times before she’d pulled away. She couldn’t play along for much longer.

As much as she hated to be dishonest, she knew there was only one way she was going to get out of this. Which was why she’d sent the text. She felt awful about it, but if she could just get Trixie to call, fake an emergency, pretend she was needed at work… maybe she could get out of this after all.

**_I’m so sorry Trixie I don’t think this is working. He’s so boring. Hasn’t stopped talking about himself all night. I’m sending the SOS. Please - get me out of here! xxx_ **

Right on cue, a couple of minutes after Patsy had sat back down at the table, offering Nick a polite smile as she tucked her napkin back into her dress, her phone had buzzed.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I have to take this, it might be work.”

**Hi! Not Trixie, but he sounds awful, hope u get out of it!! :)**

Patsy stared at the message for a long moment in horror, hoping it didn’t show on her face. She scrolled back up and sure enough, she’d text the wrong person. The name at the top of her screen didn’t even make sense let alone correspond to who she thought she’d text: it was a bunch of emojis. How had she managed to send her text to this person? She was clearly more of a light weight than she thought.

“Is everything alright?” Nick asked, still pondering the dessert menu.

“Uh, yes!” Patsy smiled, pretending to shove her phone into a non-existent pocket in her dress, “nothing important.”

_**Oh god, sorry, wrong number! I have no idea what happened. Won’t happen again.** _

She quickly typed out a message and sent it to Trixie, making sure that this time, it was definitely being sent to the right person.

She’d barely returned her attention to pretending she was reading the menu when it buzzed again. It was from the mystery person.

**Hahahaha no probs happens to us all. Can do a convincing emergency phone call if needed ;)**

Patsy glanced at her phone under the table and frowned. She still had no idea who this person was, or how their number had got saved in her phone.

**_Sorry, this is really rude of me, but I don’t know who you are or how your number got saved in my phone? x_ **

**Delia Busby. I work up on Keller? We met at New Years? Dw u were pretty out of it haha!**

and then, a few minutes later.

**Sure you don’t want me to call?**

The normal, logical thing to do, would have been to say no. She could have waited for Trixie to call, or done the right thing, and just waited it out. Ordered the creme brûlée, made small talk, gone home. The same thing plenty of women did when they weren’t interested.

She didn’t know what possessed her to instead say:

**_Oh! Hi. No, I do think I remember, sorry! Your name isn’t saved in my phone, just the number. Currently texting under the table. Very much need that call. Would owe you A LOT. xxx_ **

“I’m thinking I’ll get the tiramisu,” Nick said, his lips forming a thin smile, “what do you fancy?”

Patsy forced a smile, reaching for her wine glass, “I’m stuck between the tart and the cheesecake,” she lied, her voice coming out slightly strained, silently praying that she was going to get that phone call any second.

Her phone buzzed.

**Give me the address, I’ll pick u up.**

In a moment of completely irrationality - something Patsy didn’t experience often - she typed the postcode without thinking, without even looking. She didn’t care who this person was, if they were wiling to rescue a complete stranger from a date from hell, they were probably not going to murder her in the backseat of their car.

She tried to drag out choosing something for dessert as long as she could. She didn’t want this poor man to have to pay for something she wasn’t going to eat, on top of everything else, but the night was drawing in, and the restaurant was half-empty. The waiter was lurking, clearly waiting for her to make her mind up, and she couldn’t stall for much longer.

Her phone began to ring and she took it out, offering Nick a mouthed ‘sorry’, whilst inside she was filled with relief. She swiped it quickly, and raised it to her ear.

“Hello Miss Mount, I think your assistance is needed at the end of the road,” the stranger - Delia - said in a low, sort of husky Welsh accent. The moment she heard the voice, a faint memory sprung up in the back of Patsy’s head, and she tried to piece it together. 

“Oh. Yes, of course. I’ll be there as soon as I can,” she responded, hoping her face wasn’t as red as she thought it probably was. She turned to Nick, her eyebrows knitting together in a frown, “I’m so sorry, there’s an emergency, and I’m on call.”

Nick looked more disappointed than she thought he would, which made the feeling of guilt in her chest grow a little more, but he smiled, “that’s a shame, but perhaps we could do this again some other time?”

“Sure,” Patsy agreed, feeling awful the moment the word left her mouth. She untucked her napkin and grabbed her bag from the floor, just as Nick rose from his seat to help her with it, “it was lovely to meet you.”

“You too,” he said, his hand lingering over hers for a moment too long before she pulled back, awkwardly waving a hand as she left the restaurant, feeling a little like the worst person on earth.

She didn’t know what car she was looking for. Her recollection of the driver was pretty hazy as well, no doubt owing to one too many (or four too many) strong drinks. The girls at work could say what they wanted about Patsy’s love life, but no one would deny she was the life of the party. She glanced around, trying to figure out which car it could be, when she realised, to her dismay, that it wasn’t a car at all, and a figure on a pale blue motor scooter was waving a spare helmet in her direction.

It was difficult to tell very much about Delia from where she was, in the dim light from a street lamp. She had long, dark hair, in a braid that was visible under her buttercup yellow helmet. Her eyes were a bright blue, and she had a wicked smirk on her face, her lips bookended by dimples. The dimples, Patsy definitely remembered.

“I can’t get on there,” she said, once she realised what was happening, “I’m not dressed for it.”

“I live around the corner. You’ll only be on here for five minutes. I’m a safe ride, I promise.”

How had she even arrived at this point? Patsy had been sure the night couldn’t get any more crazy after the whole ‘going on a date just to shut her best friend up’ thing, but then she’d managed to text the wrong person, and now she was arguing over getting onto the back of the kind of scooter you usually saw in awful romantic comedies, being driven by a suave European man with a bad tan, with someone she didn’t know. Or did know, but only from a drunken exchange months ago.

Patsy was the kind of person who made calculated, practical decisions. If anything, she over-planned. She didn’t do things on a whim. Her father had always made fun of her even as a child for being too organised, for spending too much time debating every little move she made (it had made playing chess with her _excruciating_ ). Whilst she’d certainly had to grow out of that, and learnt to make much quicker decisions - she worked at the accident and emergency, she had to make life-saving decisions every day) - she certainly didn’t jump to rash decisions. She prided herself on being logical. This was not logical. At all.

Perhaps she’d abandoned practicality the moment she’d text her back after the first polite apology message. If it had still been intact, she certainly had discarded it when she agreed to have this stranger call her, and pick her up. So it probably shouldn’t have surprised her when she eventually nodded, and accepted the helmet that was handed to her.

“Hold on tight,” Delia told her.

Patsy slid the helmet over her neatly pinned hair and stepped onto the seat of the scooter in the same way small children mounted horses: one leg at a time, and hesitantly. She wished she hadn’t worn heels, or at the very least, that she’d brought flat shoes with her. She tucked her skirt awkwardly under her legs, and shifted forward a tiny amount on the seat, but not enough that she was touching Delia.

“I won’t bite,” Delia teased, looking at her over her shoulder. Patsy moved forward, pressing her front against Delia’s back, and wrapping her arms around her middle in the way she’d only ever seen in films.

Delia was warm, and smelt nice, and even though it was irrational, and they were flying down back streets with no seatbelts, Patsy couldn’t help but feel safe with her arms wrapped tightly around her, her head resting against her shoulders.

They pulled into a road shortly after, and it wasn’t until they parked up on the drive, that she realised she’d unintentionally agreed to go to this stranger’s house. She peeled herself away from her, and yanked the helmet off her head, sure that her hair was probably a complete mess by now. She climbed off the scooter with very little confidence, accepting Delia’s hand when it was offered to her. They’d parked under a huge tree, and damp blossom squelched under her feet, sticking to the sharp points of her heels.

“Thank you for the save, but I should get going” she said, awkwardly.

Delia’s face drooped just a little, before she tugged her lips back into a smile, “come in for a drink? I want to hear just how terrible this date was.”

Glancing at her watch out of habit, Patsy tipped her head to one side and contemplated, “I suppose I do owe you that.”

She didn’t know what she was supposed to expect the house of someone she knew nothing about besides their occupation to look like, but somehow the house they walked into wasn’t it. The hallway was filled with shoes - far too many to belong to just one person, and not neatly stacked in a rack like in Patsy’s own flat - and when they moved through to the kitchen, it looked more like a student house than somewhere a grown adult might live. A stack of books took up one end of the counter top, and a quick glance confirmed that none of them were remotely food related. Whilst Delia filled the kettle, Patsy took a seat on one of the miss-matched barstools, and picked up the first book on the pile, glancing at the women on the cover, before returning it to the pile.

“Sorry it’s a mess, we don’t really have guests round much… in fact, we barely even see _each other_ , let alone anybody else,” Delia said, glancing over her shoulder. She’d shed her denim jacket, and only now did Patsy realise she was wearing pyjamas.

“I promise you I don’t often send SOS texts to my friends to pick me up from awful dates… in fact I don’t very often go on dates, awful or otherwise.”

Delia turned around, resting her back on the counter, that lop-sided smirk that was already becoming familiar pinching at her lips, “you really don’t remember anything from that party, do you?”

Patsy exhaled sharply, shaking her head, “should I?”

Shrugging, Delia turned back to making their drinks. There was something about how casual she was being, how the fact a complete stranger was in her house and it wasn’t causing her the least bit of concern, that made Patsy feel uneasy. Not because she didn’t trust her, or because she felt threatened. More because she couldn’t remember what had happened at that party at all, and the way Delia was addressing it, she thought she probably _should._

“So you work on Keller,” she said, trying to make conversation on a comfortable topic. The most comfortable topic, in fact: work, “have you been working there long?”

“More or less since I qualified, so… about a year. I spent three months over in ICU at St. Andrews first, but I hated it. You work in Emergency, right?”

“Right,” Patsy breathed, wondering what else she’d told Delia whilst drunk that she no doubt remembered.

“I’m always looking to transfer down there. I’ve been floated down once or twice, but not for a year or so now. It’s so much more exciting than surgical.”

“It has its moments,” Patsy agreed.

The kettle clicked off, and she watched Delia pour hot water into two mugs. Delia hadn’t asked her what she wanted, but Patsy didn’t mind. She was only really staying out of politeness - she wasn’t even sure she’d finish a drink.

“Sugar? Milk?”

“No thanks - I drink it black,” Patsy said, unsure if the ‘it’ was tea or coffee.

Delia tsked playfully, putting both cups down in front of Patsy, “and you’re probably sweet enough, right?”

Patsy blushed despite how cheesy the line was, and how hard her heart was now pounding in her chest. Was she… flirting? Or just teasing? She frowned, watching Delia as she darted off to the fridge, pulling out a bottle of milk and pouring it into her own mug until the liquid turned a very pale shade, more milk than tea. 

“I know, waste of a tea bag… I like a milky brew though,” she said, sheepishly, taking the spoon she’d been stirring with out of the cup, and tossing it onto the drainer, “come on then, spill the beans.”

Patsy didn’t know what to say, though she supposed this was as good a practice for the interrogation Trixie would give her tomorrow as any. She sighed. There was no real thing wrong with Nick. So he talked about himself a lot? Was that the real reason Patsy had been bored stiff all night long? Probably not. It probably had more to do with her than him. And she certainly couldn’t go into that, not with Trixie, and not with Delia either.

“I don’t know if I want to talk about it,” she dismissed, lowering her eyes, pretending to be fascinated by the pattern on the side of her mug.

“Just wasn’t your type then?”

She tried to ignore the way the hairs prickled up at the back of her neck, the way Delia’s eyes seemed to be twinkling with something unsaid, “you could say that, yes.”

“Why did you agree to go out on a date with him, then?” she asked, and even though her lips were hidden by the mug that was lifted to her face, Patsy could tell she was smirking.

“It was a blind date. Sort of. I was set up my friend. Trixie Franklin, you might know her?”

Delia shook her head, taking a long sip of her tea and putting it down on the counter, a little too close to Patsy’s. The space between their hands was only inches wide. Patsy found herself staring at it.

“I wish you remembered the party,” Delia said, after a long moment, “I’ve thought about it a lot.”

There was an unfamiliar stirring in Patsy’s belly at the look Delia was giving her, gazing at her from under her eyelashes. She didn’t wear a scrap of make-up, but she was beautiful, in a sort of fresh and natural way. Not like Patsy at all. She felt ridiculous in her low-cut green dress and fancy up do, sitting across from Delia in her pyjamas.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, still unable to look away from Delia.

“Maybe that’s why you sent that text. Maybe it was… I don’t know… fate intervening,” she laughed, looking away and down at her mug, and Patsy felt relieved to know Delia was as awkward as she was. When Patsy didn’t respond, Delia quickly looked up, “that was a joke,” she clarified.

Was it? Patsy wasn’t so sure. She didn’t look like she was joking.

“What exactly happened at New Years,” she asked, her voice coming out quiet and strained. She nibbled on her bottom lip, eyes searching Delia’s.

The other woman shrugged, picking at an invisible defect in the counter between them. She was obviously embarrassed. That just made Patsy more intrigued. Perhaps intrigued wasn’t the right word, but she struggled to pin down the feeling in any other way. She thought perhaps she should be scared. Even if Delia didn’t voice what had happened, even if Patsy didn’t remember it detail by detail, she was beginning to think she knew what had happened, and that should have been frightening. It was a part of her she’d never laid visible to anybody else. But instead of fear, she felt anticipation, something akin to excitement bubbling in her.

“I’m not the kind of person who kisses random girls at parties and then never texts them,” Delia said, evenly, though her eyes were still trained away from Patsy’s, “I wanted to call you.”

Patsy’s mouth suddenly felt too dry, that word lingering between them. Now that it had been said, she knew that the faint recollection, the feel of silky dark hair under her fingers, soft lips pressed against hers… it had been what had happened. She remembered waking up from dreaming about it, not knowing where it had come from. It should have been obvious from the moment she’d received that first text. Maybe it was. Maybe that was why she’d said yes.

“I’m sorry,” she said, sighing, “I drank so much that night.”

She watched Delia’s face carefully, trying to figure out what she was thinking. She thought she looked disappointed.

“It’s okay.”

“I didn’t mean… I mean, I probably wouldn’t have kissed you if I wasn’t… but not because I didn’t want to,” Patsy clarified, “it just isn’t something I… do.”

“I kissed you.”

“I kissed back,” Patsy told her, and she knew that she had, because the moment was replaying in her mind now, and she might not have remembered every second of it, but she knew she kissed back. She knew she enjoyed it.

“When you said he wasn’t your type…” Delia began, wrapping her hands around her mug again, her fingers still dangerously close to Patsy’s, “did you mean… because he was a man?”

It felt like all the blood had rushed to Patsy’s head. She’d never been all that dedicated to hiding how she felt about women, a part of her wishing that somebody would notice, would ask her about it, so she wouldn’t have this horrible secret part of her hidden from everybody, but she also hadn't ever been in a position to confirm it. Saying it aloud made it true. And she was still scared of that. She’d been scared of it since she was a teenager, developing her first crush, not understanding why she felt that way about a girl, and not a boy like everybody else.

“Yes,” her voice came out as a breath, forming a lump in the back of her throat.

“Your friends don’t know?”

Patsy shook her head, “nobody does.”

They sat there in silence for a moment, and Patsy couldn’t work out how she felt. A weight had lifted off her shoulders, but she wasn’t relieved. There was still this intensity between them. In some ways, this was worse than sitting at a table in a fancy restaurant with a person you had no intention of seeing ever again, much less sleeping with. This was worse because it actually meant something.

“My heart leapt into my throat when I got your text. Just for a second, before I saw that it wasn’t for me.”

“I’m sorry,” Patsy said again, not sure what else she could say.

“It’s sad, right? That I was still thinking about you? You only worked a few floors bellow me. I could have gone by and found you any time. I thought about it once or twice, but I didn’t want to be… stalkery. I wanted to wait for you to text.”

“Why didn’t you text first?” Patsy found herself asking. Not that it mattered. She knew that if she had text, she probably would have ignored it.

Delia shrugged, “I don’t know. I figured you weren’t interested. You were drunk and I wasn’t and I thought if you really wanted to see me again, you’d call. But you didn’t. It was one time, you know? I didn’t want to be strung up on some girl who I met at a party, who probably wasn’t even…” she trailed off, then cleared her throat, “anyway, you should probably get going, right? You probably have an early shift tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t call,” Patsy said, ignoring her, though she did glance at her watch.

“It’s okay. I’d rather we didn’t do this. I feel stupid enough as it is. I didn’t want to make you awkward, or feel like you had to humour me. I don’t even know why I invited you here or what I thought would happen if I got you here. It was stupid.”

Despite her better judgement, Patsy closed the gap between them, covering Delia’s hand with her own in an unusual moment of confidence. Delia looked down at their hands, and then back up at Patsy, her eyes drooping to her lips for the briefest moment, before moving back up again.

“It wasn’t stupid.”

Delia’s hand was warm under hers, and Patsy couldn’t stop herself from reaching across, tucking a strand of loose hair behind Delia’s ear. Her face radiated heat, her hair as soft and smooth as Patsy remembered it, even from her dream. It was strange what stayed with you, how you could erase a whole moment in time from your memory, but a feeling or a smell or a taste could stick with you. She let her fingers stay there a moment longer, her eyes searching Delia’s.

“I’m really bad at this,” Patsy whispered, as Delia inched closer.

Their lips met across the counter, and it felt oddly familiar, the soft rhythmic movement of Delia’s mouth against hers. Patsy vividly remembered the taste of rum, suddenly, before she returned to concentrate on the here and now, and not the kiss of four months ago. Now, Delia tasted milky, her lips soft but firm. Patsy tangled her hand in her hair, drawing her closer. She wasn’t just out of practice, she lacked in experience entirely, but Delia didn’t seem to mind. They pulled back, and she rested her forehead gently against Delia’s for a moment, her eyes still closed, trying to commit this moment to memory so she had something to hold onto.

“What do we do now?” Delia breathed, playing with a curl of Patsy’s hair.

“I don’t know. I’ve never done this.”

“Then, I guess we take it as it comes. We get to know each other, we go for lunch… get a drink after shift. We actually text each other. On purpose,” Delia’s eyes glistened and Patsy laughed, “we see what happens?”

Patsy’s throat was still dry, but she nodded.

“We do this.” Delia drew her closer again, kissing her gently, her hand cupping the back of Patsy’s head. All other thoughts melted away.

-

_Shit, I only just got off shift. Are you alright? What happened?? Do I need to grab a bottle on the way home? Two? xox_

Patsy’s phone buzzed. She rolled onto her side and glanced at the time. Her alarm wouldn’t be going off for another two hours, but she wasn’t cross. She sunk deeper under her duvet and closed her eyes, unable to fight off the smile that stretched across her lips as she thought about the night before.

**_No. All good. Can’t make dinner tonight - got a second date. Xxxx_ **

She tossed her phone back onto her nightstand, and fell back asleep, returning to dreams of soft kisses and dark hair, and speeding across town on the back of a moped, flush against a warm body.

Perhaps dating wasn’t so bad, after all.


End file.
